A Flicker of Hope
by AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: June 1536. Mary is struggling with guilt in the aftermath of taking the Oath. Chapuys is there to offer her an ear and to help her come to terms with some difficult truths. Oneshot, no pairings. Canon and historically accurate.


**A Flicker of Hope**

 ** _29 June 1536_**

She had submitted.

The thought haunted her every moment of the day, from the moment she woke up, as she prayed in the chapel, as she ate her meals, as she tried to distract herself with music, books, or distributing food and goods to the poor families who lived on her estates, as she took long walks in the gardens surrounding Hunsdon, until she huddled beneath the covers and slipped into the uneasy embrace of sleep. It haunted her now as she tried to distract herself on yet another long, relentless walk around the gardens, with two of her ladies trailing behind her.

If Chapuys could hear her thoughts, he would have reminded her that her life had been in danger, and that the pope would understand and absolve her of any wrongdoing in taking the Oath and that her soul would not suffer for it. Mary was grateful for that knowledge, she truly was, but it was scant consolation when she knew what she had done, and the magnitude of what it meant.

She had submitted.

Everything her mother had fought for was lost.

Ten years, of uncertainty and fear and humiliation, of painful rejection and desperate struggle, of choosing poverty and isolation and even the threat of execution over renouncing her daughter's claim to the throne. Katherine of Aragon had fought for her marriage, for her own soul, for her husband's soul, for her family's honor, but most of all, she had fought to spare her daughter from being robbed of her inheritance and her rights. Everything Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England, had ever sacrificed had been for her daughter's sake, and Mary, in a few scratches of the pen, had rendered it all useless.

She should have been able to hold firm, as her mother had, as Sir Thomas and Bishop Fisher had, even when they were sent to the scaffold, but she had been weak and yielded, trading the truth for her physical safety. But in all honesty, who could blame her? She had been so terrified, as every hope she'd had after the harlot's execution last month that her father would welcome her back into his life was slowly stripped away, whether by the arrests of her servants or Cromwell's grim insinuations in his letters or the rumors that made their way from court to her ears or Chapuys' pleas for her to sign, for her own safety.

Her fears had been solidified in the form of the delegation that her father had sent to her, to browbeat and bully her into acknowledging his supremacy as Head of the Church and the supposed invalidity of his marriage to her mother. When she had refused, the Duke of Norfolk had threatened to beat her to death, or else smash her head against the wall until it was as soft as a boiled apple, and dropped dark hints that her father would view her defiance in a similar light and punish her as though she were a traitor.

Never, in all the years she had spent in disgrace, had she been treated with such flagrant disrespect to her face, and the fact that Norfolk had dared to do so without fear of reprisal spoke volumes about where Mary stood in her father's favor and what he might be prepared to do to her.

She had never believed, in all these years, no matter how shabbily and cruelly the concubine induced her father to treat her, no matter what he did or threatened to do against Mary and her mother, he would ever be able to bring himself to actually harm her. She had been the pearl of his world, his only living child for so long and treasured as such, and surely no matter how disappointed he was that she was a girl and not the son he needed to secure his dynasty, he would never have killed her… or would he?

Mary truly did not know, even now, and she had not wanted to find out. She had affixed her name to all of those vile clauses, and written a groveling, abject letter to her father, willing to let go of every shred of pride she possessed if only she could be near him again, the only parent she had left.

And miraculously, her father had relented. She had received hearty congratulations from many influential courtiers, her household had swelled and her allowance had increased, and her father had written to let her know that he was overjoyed that their separation was over- as if it had not been within his power to end it any time he chose! - and that he and his new queen would pay her a visit within the week.

Mary said a short prayer of thanks that the woman at her father's side was, by all accounts, a gentle, kind lady, one who supported the true faith. Jane Seymour was determined to be a friend to Mary, and she had even courted the king's wrath by begging him not to proceed against Mary for treason, though her pleas had been brusquely ignored.

Jane Seymour might not have been able to spare her the pain of taking the Oath, but she was already doing her best to reconcile father and daughter, which was far more than could be said for Mary's last stepmother…

"My lady! My lady Mary!"

A page was running toward her, his livery flapping as he caught up with her- her father's livery, rather than her own, as a reminder that everything she had been granted was out of charity and not because she had any true right to it, she thought with a burst of resentment, but she pushed it down as the page caught up with her, panting hard.

"Forgive me, but I have urgent news for you, my lady."

"What is it?"

"A visitor is here to see you, my lady."

"Then pray tell, _who_?" Mary demanded, irritated both by his use of _my lady_ , a mode of address suited for a nobleman's daughter, not a princess, and his refusal to get to the point.

"My lady, the Imperial Ambassador is here to see you. He arrived not ten minutes ago and asked if you might be willing to see him now, or a little later."

"I shall see him at once!" Mary said, surprised that Chapuys had dropped by without sending word beforehand, but glad of the opportunity to distract herself from her black thoughts.

"Of course, my lady. Shall I tell him that you require time to make yourself presentable?..." the servant said doubtfully, eying her hair and dress, ruffled from pacing around the garden.

"No, I shall see him now. Thank you for letting me know."

And with that, Mary hiked up her skirts and all but ran back to the manor, as quickly as decorum allowed, with her ladies following behind her.

* * *

Chapuys bowed low as he entered Mary's presence chamber, kissing her hand when she presented it to him and infusing his voice with the deepest reverence, according her the respect she was due as a princess of the blood, even if he had to address her as Lady rather than Princess. Mary was so glad to see him that this did not bother her in the least. Her new servants and ladies were all respectful and polite to her, but they were her father's servants first and foremost, not hers, and she had to tread carefully around them. The prospect of speaking to someone she could trust unreservedly, after weeks of uncertainty and dissembling, terrified that one gesture would undo everything and render the high price she'd had to pay useless, was a welcome one.

After the formalities had been seen to, Mary returned outside to the path she had been charting minutes before, with Chapuys accompanying her this time. "How are you, Your Highness?" he asked her, compassion in his voice. "I know recent weeks have been difficult for you."

Mary smiled bitterly. That was a gross understatement, and they both knew it. "I am doing well, or at least as well as I could have hoped under the circumstances," she said truthfully, after a few moments' consideration. "I am reconciled with my father and safe for the time being, which is more than I could have said a few weeks ago."

"I know that, Princess, and I am glad to hear it. But your countenance tells me that something else still troubles you."

Mary bit her lip, unable to decide how to give shape to the emotions that roiled within her. She still struggled with the enormous guilt she felt for rejecting her mother and her Church, as well as the pain of the knowledge that her father could have sent her to her death, and the fear of what lay in the future for her. Those feelings would not go away soon, but at least they made sense. But there were other dark thoughts that she struggled with, thoughts that were less easy to explain.

Chapuys seemed to sense her discomfort, and he lay a gentle hand upon her arm, guiding her to sit on a bench underneath the shade of a huge oak tree. When her ladies attempted to follow them, he gestured for them to stay back, wanting to give Mary some privacy.

"Your Highness, if there is anything, anything at all you wish to say to me, you may speak freely."

His voice was tender, and his dark eyes warm and inviting, more fatherly than that of an ambassador to his Princess, but she was not insulted by the familiarity. It had been years since she received a single loving embrace or word from her father, except the one time he bowed to her when she stood on the balcony at Hatfield, and while she had been comforted by the knowledge that while her mother was alive, she was doing everything in her power to secure Mary's future, it could not make up for her absence by her side. Her governess, Lady Salisbury, had cared for her as though she were her own flesh and blood since Mary was young, but her father had dismissed her when he sought to remove her from the succession, determined to break his daughter by any means, even if it meant separating her from every person who loved her, even when Lady Salisbury offered to serve her princess at her own cost. She had been utterly alone and abandoned, and it had been years since she could take comfort from the presence of a loving parent, and she was grateful for Chapuys' affection now.

Unbidden, tears sprung to her eyes, and rather than forcing them away, as a princess should, and maintaining her composure, she decided that just this once, she would indulge herself and be weak. She might be a full-grown woman of twenty, old enough to be a mother several times over by now, but she had had her childhood wrested from her, and she deserved a moment of weakness.

"I betrayed her," she whispered, her voice raw and hoarse. "She sacrificed her life for my rights, and I signed it all away just so that I could live."

Now that she had given voice to her guilt, allowed some of it to come through, it all came bubbling to the surface, and before she realized it, she was sobbing. Her chest heaved as she gasped, and Chapuys drew her into his arms, and she wept into his shoulder, clutching at him desperately.

"Highness-Mary, please, I beg you not to weep. Your life was in danger, and had you not told your father-God have mercy on his soul- exactly what he wanted to hear, he would have had you-"

Chapuys stopped abruptly. Mary twisted in his arms, looking into his face. An ugly bitterness marred his features, and he refused to meet her eyes.

"Do you believe he would have done it?" Mary did not want to know the answer, but a morbid part of her needed to.

Chapuys did not answer. "I know this much, at least: without telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, you would never have been restored to his good graces. Now that he believes you to be his loving and obedient daughter, he will be more open to listening to what you have to say. You have done your cause much more good than if you had remained in disgrace."

Mary shook her head. "I should have been able to stand firm. My mother refused to give in, no matter what they threatened her with, and martyrs shed their blood for that which I have denied!"

Chapuys grasped her arm. "Please, Highness, listen to me. I cannot bear to see you in such distress. What your sainted mother and those other brave men, God rest all their souls, did was brave, and it is admirable that you wished to follow in their footsteps, but sometimes we must make sacrifices and dissemble, all the better for the cause we serve. God looks more into the intentions of men than their deeds, and whatever sin there is in this ugly matter will not attach itself to your soul. You have bought some time for yourself, time that is more valuable than your disgrace."

Mary nodded half-heartedly. She could understand the practical reasons for her submission, but it had still been a bitter blow to her pride and self-respect to give her father the satisfaction of hearing her say that he was right, and to allow the world to see her do so. Even if in the eyes of God she was blameless, that did not change the fact that in the eyes of the world, she had submitted, something she had promised her mother and herself that she would never do.

She would never forgive herself for that.

"And there is other news to take joy in," Chapuys continued, hating to see the young Princess so miserable. "Queen Jane is devoted to our faith and our cause, as you know, and now that the harlot is dead and no longer whispering poison in his ear, I am sure that it is only a matter of time before His Majesty is persuaded to see the error of his ways."

"If that was so, then why did he _still_ force me to acknowledge the 'invalidity' of my mother's marriage, and to renounce Rome, even after he saw the whore for what she was and got rid of her?" Mary pointed out bleakly, at last giving voice to a thought she had kept buried deep within her. "It was the perfect time for him to make amends, and he _still_ clings to the heresy that _she_ introduced!"

It was as though for every blessing God sent, he had to match it with misfortune, measure for measure. She was reconciled with her father, but only after renouncing her mother, her faith, and herself. She had a household of her own, but one that befitted a royal bastard, not a princess. Anne Boleyn was dead, her so-called "marriage" annulled and her daughter declared a bastard, meaning that Mary thankfully did not have to acknowledge her as Queen or her daughter as a Princess of England, but Anne's death had not shaken her father's conviction that his first marriage was invalid and he must crush his daughter's rebellion. If anything, it had strengthened it.

"He would have proceeded against me for treason, not because she was urging him to it, but because _he_ wanted to," Mary whispered, as much to herself as to Chapuys. "Before, at least I could tell myself that in his heart, he must still love and care for me, and he was only yielding to her whims, and that, but for her influence, he never would have treated me like this. Now I know the truth."

To that, Chapuys had no answer. He gripped her hand more tightly, and Mary returned his solid grasp gratefully. For a long while, he did not say anything, content to remain with her in silence as long as she needed.

"My Lady Kingston, the Constable's wife, came to me a few days after her execution," Mary spoke after a few moments. "She waited on the concubine while she was in the Tower, and she bore a message that her mistress had bid her bring to me after she died."

Chapuys turned to her incredulously. "A final request beseeching you to acknowledge her as queen?" he asked, sardonic disbelief evident in his tone. "What good could it have possibly done her then?"

"No…" Mary gazed upon her lap, folding her hands contemplatively. "Lady Kingston said that on the night before her execution, the concubine conducted her to her presence chamber and asked her to sit on the throne before her. When Lady Kingston did so, she knelt before her as though she were a supplicant."

Chapuys snorted at the thought of the concubine kneeling before anyone, the scandal of Christendom who had expected the rightful Queen of England for more than twenty years, the daughter of two Spanish monarchs, to step aside for her. Mary had nearly done the same when she first heard Lady Kingston's account, but her next words had left Mary empty of any scorn or disgust she might have felt, and had tormented Mary as much as anything else in the weeks since.

"When she had seated herself upon the chair, the concubine asked her that she… that she go, and kneel before me, and in her stead, beg pardon for the many wrongs she had done me in her time. For it weighed heavily on her conscience, and she could not bear to leave this earth without making amends."

Chapuys' face betrayed his shock and disbelief, emotions that Mary knew must be reflected in her own eyes. When Mary had first heard Anne Boleyn's appeal, she had been tempted to dismiss it as a poor joke and sharply reprimand Lady Kingston, and she might have done so, but for the fact that she knew Lady Kingston to be a great friend of her mother's, and that she would have never dreamed of carrying a message like this if she had not been charged with doing so.

Mary had thanked Lady Kingston as warmly as she could, knowing that, whatever crimes Anne might have committed, she had the right to atone for any wrongs she had committed before she met her maker, and that Lady Kingston should not be faulted for granting a dying woman this favor. She had not intended to take a word of Anne's plea seriously, however, and had dismissed it as nothing more than one last attempt of that witch to cause Mary confusion and distress. At the time, just a few days after Anne's death, Mary had been overjoyed that Anne had met her richly deserved end at last. Confident that within a few weeks at most, she would be restored to her father's favor, she had not intended to allow that harlot to cast a shadow upon her life any longer.

As May turned into June, however, and her father's treatment of her showed no sign of abating, even with the concubine's death, her joy had drained away to be replaced by crippling uncertainty and fear. In the light of the terrible knowledge that her father was prepared to continue to treat her so cruelly, even when he was free of Anne's malign influence, Anne's words had resurfaced in her mind, shaking the convictions she had held to for so long.

For so long, she had been convinced that once the harlot was removed, in whatever manner God saw fit, her father would come to his senses, repent of the way he had treated his true wife and daughter for so long, and of the heresy he had allowed to take root in the church, and hurry to make amends. When he did so, Mary would be only too happy to forgive him, and all would be right in her world again. It had been the only hope to sustain her during the long years of agony, and she had clung to it as a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood. She had to believe that her beloved father would never treat her like this of his own volition, and that the harlot was manipulating him and she was the architect of all of Mary's miseries. Anne had to be responsible, because if she wasn't, then Mary's father was, and if that was so, it would shatter Mary.

Anne had to be responsible… but if she was, then why had Mary's father threatened to kill her if she did not do as he commanded?

Why had Mary been treated more roughly and brutally after her death than she ever had handled been while the harlot was in power?

Why had Anne reached out to her and tried to make amends, even if her apology was far too little and far too late, while her father remained as cold and distant as ever?

Why had her father not taken advantage of the opportunity to make things right, even though it was the perfect time? No one would have faulted him for admitting his errors and correcting them, and even if his pride balked at the thought of public ridicule, surely there was enough honor and integrity left in him to do the right thing, no matter how much he might cringe at humbling himself.

Mary didn't know the answers to any of those questions, and in all honesty, she did not want to know. She was already struggling to forgive herself for committing the worst betrayal of her life, and she had no energy left to start sifting through the tangled web of guilt and responsibility to know who was truly the cause of her suffering. It didn't matter anymore, at this point. What was done was done, and dwelling on it would only cause her more pain. Her father had opened his heart to her, something that she had longed for above all else and was truly grateful for now, no matter how high the price had been, and it was her future that mattered now, not the past.

Chapuys had recovered the use of his tongue. "Well, whatever she might have hoped to accomplish by apologizing, it would have been of no use to her. She was a heretic through and through, and she is surely burning in hell for the damage she caused to England's church, and for all the pain she caused your sainted mother, God rest her soul." Chapuys crossed himself and bowed his head. Mary copied his gesture.

"And now that she is gone, Your Grace has a better chance than ever of being restored to the succession. Queen Jane is on our side, after all, and even if your father has refused to heed her good advice…" Chapuys trailed off, but hastily amended that statement, trying to inject optimism into his voice, though Mary could hear the doubt. "But even if he has, surely it is only his pride that keeps him from listening to her and doing right by you and your late mother's memory. I have every confidence that in time, he will do so, God willing."

"God willing," Mary repeated hollowly. Her father had proved himself to be capable of acting without regard for the influence of his wife, or the woman at his side he was calling his wife, and though she did not want to dishearten Chapuys, who was trying so hard to cheer her up, she was increasingly disillusioned about the likelihood of her father ever restoring her to her rights.

"And even if he never allows you to call yourself a princess of England, you still have his ear now, and that is something for which we should all thank God." Chapuys' voice broke into her gloomy thoughts, reminding her that there were benefits to her situation, benefits that she should not ignore by wallowing in remorse. Now that she stood in favor again, she was in a position to do much more good for others than if she had remained in disgrace.

The thought did not lessen the weight of guilt she felt, but it did remind her that she was a princess of England, no matter what she had been made to sign, and she had a duty to look after the welfare of her people and speak for them when they needed it. There were so many subjects who needed her protection- the Pole family, which included her old governess Lady Salisbury and some of her mother's staunchest supporters; the monks and nuns who lived in the monasteries that were being dissolved and cast out of their homes; and so many others. She would speak for them as soon as she could. If they suffered less because she had been in a position to advocate for them, if some good came out of this mess, she would know that her sacrifice was not in vain.

"The King and Queen are coming to visit me later this week," she remembered out loud, and Chapuys brightened considerably at this. A simple visit might not seem like much, but it was a marked change from when she was out of favor and exiled to Hatfield, kept out of her father's presence. Now she was mistress of her own household, and the King and Queen were prepared to pay her a formal visit.

"That is very good news," he congratulated her, as aware as her of what it meant.

Mary returned his smile, feeling a flicker of hope find its way into her heart for the first time in weeks. She might not be a princess anymore, at least in the eyes of the world, but she was treated respectfully and honorably, and valued by the King and Queen, and that was more than another motherless royal bastard might have been able to say… such as her sister, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was languishing in disgrace at Hatfield, and although she was not yet three, she had noticed that her ladies no longer addressed her as _my Lady Princess_ but instead as _my Lady Elizabeth._ Mary had overheard the exchange between Sir John Shelton, Elizabeth's governor, and her too-sharp-for-her-own-good sister, in which she inquired innocently why the change had occurred. A very flustered poor Sir John had told her that it was the king's command that she have a new title. Elizabeth had accepted his explanation without protest, too young to understand the implications of what it meant for her, but before she was much older, she would know. Mary had been removed from Hatfield and given her own establishment at Hunsdon not long after that exchange, but she knew from personal experience that Elizabeth's household must have been dramatically reduced, since a bastard did not need as many servants as a legitimate royal child. She was sure to miss the company of many of the ladies who had taken care of her since earliest infancy, and that would not even be the worst blow.

Mary had hated Anne Boleyn with every ounce of her being, and she had rejoiced at her death, but even Mary could not deny that whatever Anne's faults, she had been a loving mother to Elizabeth, and her daughter was sure to be devastated by her death, and horrified by the knowledge that her father had ordered it. As justified as it may have been, and as better off Elizabeth was without her mother's influence, there was no question that it would scar the young girl, and no matter what Anne had done, Elizabeth did not deserve to suffer when she was an innocent toddler who had never done anything wrong.

"Perhaps I shall speak for Elizabeth when they come to visit." Mary thought aloud, and when Chapuys' expression darkened, she frowned. "What is it, Your Excellency?"

"Your Highness, it is commendable that you wish to speak for those who are less fortunate than you, but I strongly caution you against mentioning the little bastard to the king."

"Why not?" Mary had not intended for the question to be so sharp, but she could not help it as it came out. "It's hardly her fault that her mother was a whore who betrayed our father, after all."

"That is true, Your Grace, but I need scarcely remind you that your father's favor has come at a high price, and it will all be for naught if you anger him by reminding him of that which he wishes to forget. Besides," he continued, trying to maintain a respectful tone, but his frustration plain nevertheless, "her loss is our gain. You know as well as I do that when His Majesty is caught between two possible courses of action, his displeasure with one increases his inclination to the other, and as long as she remains out of favor, he is all the more likely to be favorably disposed toward us."

Mary flinched, both at his blunt but accurate assessment of her father as fickle and mercurial, and at his cheerful callousness at the prospect of a young girl's suffering. She was not as confident as Chapuys was that her father's anger at Anne, and by extension, Elizabeth, would work to their advantage. He had refused to soften toward her, even as he was nursing anger toward the harlot, and she had little faith in the prospect of it working for her now.

And even if it would have, Mary had no intention of benefiting at Elizabeth's expense, especially when Elizabeth's only crimes were being a daughter in place of the son her father wanted and being the daughter of a woman he wished to forget. Hadn't Mary herself suffered for exactly the same reasons? If anything, Elizabeth was even worse off than Mary had been. At least Mary and her mother had had the support of powerful foreign relatives, the people, and staunch allies such as More and Fisher. Anne had never bothered to endear herself to the people, arrogantly trusting in the king's love for her, leaving little Elizabeth with virtually no one in her corner now. How could Mary seek to profit from Elizabeth's sufferings now, when she had once stood in Elizabeth's shoes?

"Even if that is so, surely you can see, Excellency, that she doesn't deserve to be left in exile and disgrace. She's going to need friends, and I see no reason that I shouldn't be one of them."

"Would you risk losing your father's good will for the sake of _her_ bastard, a bastard who might not even be his at all?"

"She is his child!" Mary snapped, angered by this slight toward Elizabeth. It was natural that, given the charges against her mother, people would question her paternity, but it still infuriated Mary to hear the insults being aimed at her baby sister. There were some who even alleged that Elizabeth was the daughter of Lord Rochford- her own uncle! At least no one would have ever _dared_ to allege that Mary was not her father's daughter; whatever else they might have accused her mother of, no one would have ever accused her of passing another man's bastard off as her husband's. "I was at her side nearly every day as she grew, and she is his child. She takes after her mother, that is true, but as God is my witness, she is his child too, illegitimate though she is."

It was undeniable that Elizabeth resembled her mother-especially in those black eyes that she had inherited from her, those black eyes that Anne Boleyn had used to bewitch her father and lead him a merry dance- but she had her father's brow, the famous Tudor red hair, and above all, the Tudor spirit and charm that had endeared Mary to her father when she was a little girl, the charm that she had recognized in Elizabeth and had made it impossible to resent the child, no matter what treatment was meted out to her for Elizabeth's sake.

No, even if for practical reasons it was better for Mary that Elizabeth remain exiled from the family circle, she would not seek to encourage it and would do her best to reconcile her with her father. She could not forgive Anne, even if she could acknowledge that she was not the sole responsible for all her troubles, but perhaps if she did her best to be kind to the little one she had left behind, she would be able to put her conscience at rest.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," Chapuys said hastily, alarmed at Mary's vehemence. "I mean no disrespect against your… your sister. I only wish to warn you against angering your father. It would do neither you nor your sister any good if you incurred his wrath."

Mary nodded, seeing the truth of Chapuys' words. She would have to remain silent where Elizabeth was concerned for the time being, but she would not forget her. She made a note to write to Lady Bryan regularly, to know how her sister was faring, and to arrange a visit to her sister soon.

An idea occurred to her and she rose to her feet, Chapuys following her example. "I have a set of jewels in my chambers," Mary explained, "that are quite valuable, but I could do without."

Soon after her submission, her father and Queen Jane had gifted her with an impressive array of jewels to replace the ones she had had to surrender while she had been a lady-in-waiting at Hatfield. She was grateful for these visible symbols of her increased status, but she would not hesitate to part with a few of them if it could do her sister good. She had overheard from her ladies' gossip that Elizabeth's household was short of funds, following her downgrading from princess to bastard, and her servants were hard-pressed to care for her adequately in her new, severely reduced state. While Mary was glad Elizabeth's true status had been made plain to the world, she was disgusted to know that her father was so enthralled by his new marriage that Elizabeth was being neglected and her governess was reduced to begging for clothing for her, just as Mary and her mother had suffered in penury while her father lavished his whore and bastard with affection.

Mary signalled for one of her ladies to come to her side, and when she drew near her, described the jewels she had in mind. "Send them to the Lady Elizabeth's household," she instructed her, feeling an absurd thrill of pleasure at being able to do this for her sister while not having to pretend that she was a princess, "and tell Lady Bryan to sell them and use the money for her charge's needs."

"At once, madam," the lady-in-waiting responded- Mary had asked her ladies to address her as _madam_ , a neutral title that might be used to address any gentlewoman or noblewoman and would not arouse suspicion, but was not insulting when used toward a princess, rather than _my lady_ \- and went off hastily to do as her mistress bid.

Chapuys watched her leave, admiration plain in his eyes. "Your Highness's kindness and generosity is commendable. I am sure that, when the time comes, you will be the greatest queen regnant this country has ever seen."

" _If_ the time comes," Mary reminded him. "Now that my father has made a true marriage to Queen Jane, I am bound to recognize any sons born from their union as ahead of me. If they are not blessed, then my father has given himself the right to appoint his successor," Mary reminded him, striving to keep indignation and fear out of her voice, as she thought of the terms of the new Act of Parliament.

Much as she would like to believe that her father would declare her his heir in the absence of a legitimate son, she doubted it, not after the way he had coerced a confession of her "illegitimacy" out of her, even when doing so would leave him without an heir and the kingdom vulnerable should anything happen to him before Queen Jane bore a son.

Had he even considered that possibility? Had he made up in his mind already to whom he would leave his kingdom, if he had no legitimate son?

Mary did not want to find out the answer, and for that reason, she would pray that Queen Jane had a son. No matter how desperately she wanted to fulfill her mother's dreams of having her daughter wear the English crown, she knew that her father would never truly accept her as his heir, not without at least trying to rectify the situation, and she would much rather a son of Jane displace her as heir rather than Elizabeth, a son of Anne's, or even her illegitimate half-brother the Duke of Richmond. More than that, she hated to think what might happen to Jane if she followed in her predecessors' steps.

She could only imagine her father's reaction if he received a third daughter in place of a son!

He would be faced with a nightmare of a succession crisis, with three daughters and three potential claimants to the throne for nobles to rally around- the perfect recipe for another bitter civil war, exactly what her father feared most and what he had tried so desperately to avoid. If his anger at the first woman who failed to help him achieve this goal had been devastating, it would be nothing compared to his fury directed at the _third_ woman who failed him, especially when he had spent nearly thirty years trying to get a legitimate son, and she would never wish it on Jane, who had been so kind to her, even if it meant setting aside her dreams of becoming England's first queen.

Either he would annul his marriage to Jane and make a _fourth_ attempt at siring a legitimate son, leaving himself with, as far as he was concerned, four bastards and three of them female. Or, he would seek to promote this daughter as his only legitimate child and his heiress presumptive, which would put Mary in the terrible position of having to choose between keeping silent as her father sinned and sacrificing her own rights, or standing against her father once more and her own half-sister, the daughter of the woman who had done so much for her cause.

Neither scenario appealed to her in the least, and she could only pray that Jane would give their family a son who would satisfy their father and leave his sisters' statuses secure.

Chapuys nodded. "That is certainly true, Highness… and yet, only God knows what the future holds."

"Only God knows," echoed Mary.

And with that, the two of them set back toward the manor, Mary's heart considerably lighter than at the beginning of the visit. She said a short prayer thanking God for sending Chapuys to her side, a guiding light in the darkness that had befallen her life, one of the few loyal and trusted friends on whom she could still rely.

She could still hear her conscience berating her for giving in, for being weak, and she knew that the ink of her signature upon that document would always gleam fresh and wet in her memory, as brightly as blood on a murderer's hand. But she could also hear her mother's gentle voice, her Spanish accent making her words sound almost melodious, telling her that every experience God sent her was a gift and should be treated as a valuable lesson. Perhaps this was why God had put her through this ordeal, not to break her but to strengthen her, so that she might know the terrible cost of the truth, and value it all the more and defend it all the more fiercely when the time came for her to be tested again. She would accept this lesson and be grateful for it, as grateful as she was for everything else He had granted her: her father's favor, her stepmother's loyalty and affection, her darling little sister, many devoted and loyal supporters, and her future.

Whatever God had in store for her, she was determined that He would always find her His most loyal servant.

* * *

 **A/N:** Historically, Mary did seek to reconcile Elizabeth with their father as soon as she was restored to favor, as well as send money for Elizabeth's upkeep, when Henry VIII neglected to do so. Mary's willingness to risk her father's displeasure when her own relationship with him was still quite tenuous speaks volumes about her love for her half-sister.

Anne's apology to Mary, relayed by Lady Kingston, while she was waiting in the Tower for death, is also historical fact.


End file.
